Hymn For A Medic
by nice-day
Summary: One Shot: Somewhere on Mars, a paramedic returns home after a tough day at work...


Disclaimer: I don't own Cowboy Bebop or any of the characters therein.  
  
************************************* CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR SESSION 26!!! *************************************  
  
***  
  
It had been a strange day. And when one considered some of the days that Simon had experienced that was really saying something. But this day was over now, and with the calming orange glow of the setting sun spilling over the walls of Tharsis city, he was finally free to return to his home.  
  
He did not have far to go. In fact, he could see his house just across the busy street from where he stood. The modest building, nestled cosily between two larger buildings, beckoned from the other side of the stream of traffic. Patiently he waited, and watched the various vehicles as they sprinted and scurried about, the occupants each concerned with their own small segments of the wider city life. They had little care for what had happened beyond their own business. No care for what he had seen.  
  
Simon shook his head. Why couldn't he stop thinking about it?  
  
There was a lull in the traffic as a set of lights just down the block changed to favour a perpendicular flow of vehicles. Seeing his opportunity, Simon trotted across the damp tarmac to the opposite side of the street.  
  
A cyclist, clearly feeling that traffic lights did not apply to his species, narrowly missed him as he mounted the pavement. Simon briefly engaged in the formality of an exchange of profanities before turning and moving quickly towards his home.  
  
The chilled drops of water that fell gently against his head signified that it was about to start raining again. It had rained for much of the morning. It had rained through much of that assignment.  
  
Again it haunted him.  
  
Simon reached into his trench coat and extracted a bunch of keys. The keys jingled cheerfully as he flipped through them in his search the appropriate one to gain access to his home. Upon finding the correct key, he slid it deftly into the keyhole and twisted and pushed simultaneously. The door moved back with a soft creak.  
  
"Hello?" he called as he crossed the threshold between the fresh, moist air of the outside world to the warm, dry air of his home, "I'm back."  
  
"Through here." Came a female voice from down the narrow hallway.  
  
Simon granted himself a little smile. The sound of her voice always made him feel that little bit more secure, as if shielding him from the harsh realities of a brutal world. And today, of all days, he needed that feeling.  
  
Simon removed his coat, and placed it over one of the row of five hooks that were secured to the wall beside the door. He then proceeded to remove the smaller jacket he wore beneath it, the luminescent garment worn by all the paramedics in the city. These completed a set, along with a long, black leather jacket and a small, pink, child's anorak.  
  
Turning, he made his way through the hall and past the stairs to the open door at the end. He emerged into the kitchen, and was greeted by the smell of burnt toast and freshly microwaved baked beans.  
  
"Hi, Si."  
  
Simon looked to the source of the rhyming greeting. A woman, little more than five feet in height, and dressed in the green, one piece uniform of a hospital nurse, was stood at the counter with her back to him.  
  
"Hi, Emily." Simon replied.  
  
He rounded the table at the heart of the kitchen, and moved up along side her. Leaning over her shoulder, he gave her a soft peck on the cheek.  
  
"How was your day?" Emily asked, as she spilled a bowl of baked beans onto a plate that already held two blackened slices of toast.  
  
"Hmm." was Simon's half-hearted reply.  
  
He then pulled away, his cheek brushing briefly against Emily's short, brown hair.  
  
Emily looked over her shoulder and smiled,  
  
"That good, eh?"  
  
Simon made his way to the table and planted himself in one of the three plastic chairs. Resting his right elbow on the table, he slowly rubbed his forehead.  
  
"Where's Sarah?" he asked, distantly.  
  
"Oh, Sarah went to Vicky's house." Emily replied, "She said she was staying there for the night. I swear it's like those two are joined at the hip. Why, was there something you wanted to talk to her about?"  
  
Simon smiled to himself. It was true that his little girl and her best friend were inseparable. They did everything, went everywhere, and spoke about everything together, to the exclusion of almost all others. He dreaded to think what might happen should anything ever come between them.  
  
"Oh no, no. Nothing important. I'll call her later to say goodnight."  
  
Simon sat back as Emily's hand emerged before him holding the plate, laden with beans on toast.  
  
"Voila, monsieur. Bon Appetite." She said as she placed the dish on the table, and then set a knife and fork beside it.  
  
"Thanks babe." Said Simon.  
  
"I'm sorry about the menu. It would have been lobster thermador, but the steamer is on the fritz."  
  
Simon did not respond to this jest, nor did he begin to eat his dinner. He simply stared into space, his mind still trapped by the events of that day.  
  
"Okay, something's bothering you. I can tell." Emily stated.  
  
She came over to the table and pulled up a seat. Sitting down at a right angle to Simon, she rested her folded arms on the table and peered at him with a look of concern.  
  
"So, are you going to tell me about it?"  
  
Simon sighed, and paused as he tried to determine whether or not there was anything even worth telling. He wanted to talk about it, but he wanted to forget about it as well, and the two desires presented him with a conflict of interests.  
  
"Depends." He said, "How long do I have?"  
  
Emily glanced up at the clock on the wall.  
  
"Oh, about ten minutes."  
  
Simon glanced at the clock for himself. It read nine forty PM. Emily's shift at the hospital from which he himself had just returned began at nine, and there was a five minute walk between the house and there. Factor in the few minutes required by any working person to set himself or herself up for a day, or night, at the office, and ten minutes was a reasonable estimate.  
  
"That's not long." Simon commented.  
  
Emily shrugged.  
  
"Well, it's either that or stew in your own juices over night until I get back."  
  
Simon chuckled to himself. She was right. She was always right. He then sighed deeply, and took the first few moments of his limited time to try and find a suitable place to begin.  
  
"I er. . . I guess you heard about what happened this morning." He said.  
  
"This morning?" Emily replied.  
  
Simon glanced across at his wife.  
  
"Yes, on the news."  
  
"Oh, right." She said, "Yeah, I had a feeling you might get sent out on that one. Was it bad?"  
  
Simon looked down at the table and clasped his hands together.  
  
"Oh, stupid question, huh?" Emily said solemnly, "You know, you shouldn't worry about these things so much. They wouldn't give a damn if the roles were reversed."  
  
"I know. . . it's just. . ." Simon didn't really know quite where to go with his next few words.  
  
It was bad. But in his profession, there were very few things that were anything else. And yet, the memory of this assignment lingered, more so than with almost any other.  
  
A building, gutted by flames, the floors littered with bullet riddled corpses like leaves littering the ground on an autumn day.  
  
"It's just. . ." Emily echoed, trying to bring Simon out of his trance.  
  
"Well, it's just that. . . there were these. . ." Simon paused again.  
  
For all the world, it had seemed as though everything that had happened, all the bloodshed and death, had been centred around the two.  
  
"There were these. . . two people."  
  
"Two people?" Emily said.  
  
"Yes, on the top floor."  
  
"What was so strange about that?"  
  
Simon rubbed his forehead again. For some reason, he was starting to have trouble remembering what had been all too vivid only moments ago. Maybe he was finally forgetting.  
  
"The building. All of it. There were corpses everywhere, dozens of them, on every floor, and in every corridor. Piled up in places."  
  
"Simon, these syndicate people are animals. You know they don't . . ."  
  
"I know." Simon interrupted, "I know. It's not that. It was just that, on the top floor, the penthouse, there was almost no one at all. Just the two."  
  
There was a flash of vivid memory. A room, bathed in the light of a new day, and in the blood of those who had not lived to see it.  
  
"The two?" Emily said, confused by her husbands meandering recollections, "Si, what do you mean?"  
  
"There were two of them, on their own. I mean, they were together, in the same room, but there was no one else."  
  
"Where they alive?" Emily asked.  
  
"No. There was no one alive." Simon replied, "Anyone who managed to survive would have long since gone by the time the police had got there. They were both dead."  
  
Another memory surfaced, this one of two bodies being recovered from a room that had itself been eviscerated by an explosion. One lay with a blood soaked sword at its side, its face twisted in agony. The second, face down on the stairs at the room's heart, looked peaceful, almost as if it were asleep.  
  
"So, what killed them?" Emily said gently.  
  
"Gunshot wound to the chest, deep laceration to the abdomen." Simon replied.  
  
Or at least, that was what the coroner's report would say. But there had to be more to it than that. In his years as a paramedic, Simon had found it to be rare for such violent ends to be met at the point of a sword, or the barrel of a gun alone. The deathblow was often dealt by something much less tangible than blade or bullet.  
  
"Sounds like a typical day at the office for the syndicate." Emily mused, "Why is it that this one bothers you so much, though?"  
  
Simon blinked hard as he tried to find the right words. Or was he looking for the right answer? Truth be told, he wasn't even sure if he knew the answer.  
  
"I guess. . . I guess it was just the way . . . the way everything seemed focused on them. It was like all of that blood. . . it was for them."  
  
The death had radiated from them, like petals about the heart of a blood- red flower.  
  
"Simon, these people live off of death." Emily explained, "It's their bread and butter. Don't let it get to you. You can't afford to."  
  
Simon took a cleansing breath. She was right. Always right.  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess so." He said.  
  
He looked over at Emily, and gave a weak smile.  
  
"Feel any better?" Emily asked.  
  
"Yes." Simon replied.  
  
Emily reached and placed a comforting hand on Simon's arm.  
  
"You are a stupid ass sometimes, you know that?" she said, affectionately.  
  
Simon chuckled. He did feel just a little silly. Maybe he had been reading too much into what was ultimately just one more syndicate blood bath. But still, something persisted.  
  
A pensive look came across Simon's face.  
  
"Simon. Is there something else?" Emily asked, leaning forwards and readopting her concerned expression.  
  
Simon sighed.  
  
"No. . . well. . ."  
  
"Well what?" said Emily.  
  
"Well, the bodies. The one with the sword. From the spattering it looked like he lay where he was shot." Simon explained.  
  
Then he paused, and looked up wistfully to the ceiling.  
  
"The other one, though. The one with the sword wound. He had. . . well it looked like he had walked away. . . he was on his way down the stairs. He was going somewhere."  
  
"Simon, he probably just fell during the fight."  
  
"No. It was too far. And there wasn't any of that kind of bruising."  
  
Simon paused once more, and looked down at his hands.  
  
"He got cut wide open, bleeding to death. And yet, he tried to walk away."  
  
Emily frowned quizzically.  
  
"Simon, I don't understand."  
  
"I just wonder." Said Simon, and then he looked up at Emily, "Where was he going?"  
  
Emily and Simon spent several seconds exchanging glances. In their own ways, each of them was trying to make some sense of what had been described.  
  
Emily smiled, knowingly.  
  
"I think that's the end of our session, Mr Sze." She said.  
  
Simon looked at her in puzzlement. Then, realising what she meant, he glanced up at the clock. It read nine fifty.  
  
"oh, I see." He replied.  
  
Emily got up from the table and walk slowly around to Simon.  
  
"You want to know my professional opinion?" she asked.  
  
"Okay." Simon said.  
  
"Eat your dinner and get some sleep. And don't worry about any of that stuff you saw today. This is going to sound terrible coming from someone in my line of work, but you shouldn't care so much. Not about people like them." Her expression changed to one of solemnity, "I can guarantee you nobody else will."  
  
She then leaned down and kissed her husband on the cheek, and headed for the door.  
  
"I'll see you later." She said, grabbing a bunch of keys from the table.  
  
"Any requests for breakfast?" Simon called after her.  
  
"Anything is good." She replied, "Just as long as it's not beans on toast."  
  
Simon laughed gently, and stood up from his own cold dinner. As he walked out of the room to see Emily off, he thought about what had been said. Perhaps he had given it all too much thought. He had seen the horror's wrought by the syndicates more times than he would care to remember and had had scant sympathy for those instigators who had fallen beneath the guns of their enemies.  
  
Simon felt sure that he would forget, in time. If not the events, then the feelings they had evoked. And as Emily had suggested, who would care about a couple more, dead syndicate thugs.  
  
She was right. She was always right.  
  
***  
  
Where y'headed, Space Cowboy?  
  
Well, there are a lot of stories out there about what might have happened after session 26, so this is my contribution to that tradition. My biggest hope for this story is that it's a little different from most. 


End file.
